Memories of Montauk

I have not written a blog post since my father passed away in late March. It has been difficult to both calm and contain the thoughts and words swirling through my head these past few months. Whether regarding my life in general, or our relationship in particular, there has been much to ponder and to reflect upon.

I wish many things had been different at the end - I wish he didn’t have cancer, I wish he didn’t go to hospice. I wish he didn’t fall and fracture his hip, requiring surgery. I wish he had died peacefully at home, surrounded by his family, instead of alone and crying out for his mother in his pain-medicated stupor.

I loved him very much, and I certainly know that he loved me, but we had our difficulties. My life never played out in the way he planned or expected the life of a young woman to be. Moving on my own to NYC, living alone, living with my fiance before marriage, conflicting career choices - the list goes on.

One thing I do have are many beautiful memories, including those of holidays and family meals together, just some of the many benefits resulting from his hard work and dedication to his business. But my favorite memories derive from the gift of travel that he gave to his family, sharing - if not literally infecting us with - his wanderlust and his passion for exploring new cultures and cuisines.

Life would have been very different if my brother and I had been born while my parents were still newlyweds living in a two-room apartment in Brooklyn. Instead, we came along after 17+ years of marriage, the lean years of struggle mostly passed. We had always lived in a comfortable, suburban home with enormous quantities of food - don’t even get me started on the holiday feasts - luxury cars, stylish clothes, mounds of toys, and of course, vacations. But, child of the Depression that he was, he never let us forget that his own childhood experience was very different from ours.

There were many trips to Florida to visit family and the newly opened Disney World, but by the time my brother and I finished college, we had visited multiple countries over several continents - Italy, Spain, France, Greece, Morocco, the Caribbean, Venezuela, just to name a few. All beautiful, exotic and filled with amazing adventures. Yet the one place that we returned to, over and over, was Montauk, right here in New York. It was truly our home away from home.

My parents began their trips out to Montauk in the 1960s at the suggestion of friends. Back then, fishing was really the primary reason to make the trip. It wasn’t much of a tourist destination, certainly not having the cache of the Hamptons or other tony Long Island shore towns. There were not many luxury hotels, not that they could have afforded it anyway. But for those willing to make the time to drive the extra miles to make it to “The End” and its endless, unspoiled beaches, it was well worth it.

My parents would fish off the docks or dig for clams right on the bay, eating them raw with a cold beer, just sitting on a picnic blanket. It was Montauk’s wild, untouched aura, I believe, that drew then in, something quite different from their city-dwelling experience or from their highly regimented, everyday working lives. That, and they couldn’t get enough of that fresh fish.

My mother, the landlubber, tried to accompany my dad on a few of his early fishing boat excursions, but they were too much for her delicate stomach so he would go on his own, leaving early in the morning and returning in the afternoon with his catch. Years later he would on occasion charter a private boat for the three of us - dad and his somewhat seasick kids - to fish for the day, bringing home more bluefish than we could ever possibly eat ourselves.

Me, circa 1972.

Over the years they began spending even more time there, both summer and fall. I recall that one of my favorite trips out to Montauk as an early teen was when we ventured out one cold, stormy November weekend to celebrate my parents’ wedding anniversary. I loved the moody, gray skies, watching the rough, tormented waves of the ocean through our motel window, feeling the cold, stinging rain on my face when we ventured out for dinner. The summertime crowds were gone and we had the town, seemingly, all to ourselves, save for the hardcore sportsmen.

For a few years my dad would rent a house on the Sound side, not far from Gosman’s. We would stay there for about month, my mom and grandparents always with us, and my dad commuting back and forth for weekends so he could continue to run his business. They were wonderful, lazy summers filled with hours of swimming, bike riding, and ice cream.

One of my favorite photos from my childhood - thank you, Dad, for being known as Mr. ‘Candid Camera’ and documenting EVERYTHING with one of your newfangled cameras or video recorders - was a pic of my standing in front of the lighthouse with my grandfather, a very important figure in my life. Symbolic in so many ways - this quiet, stalwart man holding my hand was truly my protector as a child, my safe harbor, just as the towering monument behind us was for countless sailors and boats that would not have survived the rough surf and rocky shores off Montauk Point without her beacon. I loved them both dearly.

Sadly, I have been searching for this photo for some time and have not yet located it. But I did make a point of photographing my children with their grandfather in front of the same lighthouse. Thankfully, all of his grandchildren have fond memories of many summer vacations spent in Montauk playing for hours on the beach, collecting shells, eating delicious food and of course, visiting the lighthouse at its eastern-most point.

Dad and his oldest grandchild, Pierce. Summer 2000

I believe the loss of a parent, no matter what the status of your relationship was or what stage of life you are in when in occurs, is profound. It is somewhat more so, I think when it is an adoptive parent you have lost. One could say it’s as if you have lost two sets of parents in one lifetime. For many, it is a love and a soul connection that can never be replaced. For others, it may bring a sense of freedom or closure, or perhaps a lingering melancholy that forever clouds their life going forward.

Much like Montauk’s iconic lighthouse, Montauk to me will forever be a shining light of my childhood, almost helping to light a path ahead of me, and of course an enduring connection to my father. From sharing this jewel with my own children, who now appreciate both its lingering natural beauty atop craggy, windblown cliffs overlooking an endless ocean before them and its quaint (though much more congested than I was raised on) downtown of shops and restaurants. I still feel its pull and it is strong.

I actually made the decision years ago that when I pass, I will be cremated. It is my wish for part of my ashes to be tossed to the wind off of Montauk Point, left to float down and dissolve, deep beneath the waves. Maybe then I can begin my next journey into a new life as a mermaid of the sea, free to roam where I choose, or perhaps as a permanent resident of the shores of Montauk. Either way, I’ll never be too far away to make the journey back.

Top photo found on Pinterest, credit avagracestudio.com

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